


everything, yourself, and home

by redluxite (wordstruck)



Series: VLD One-Shots [7]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - College/University, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Sheithlentines 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 10:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13739307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/redluxite
Summary: “Space is -- there’s just so much of it out there, and it’s massive and just going on, right? There’s so much we don’t know, I mean, we’re just starting to reach the Kuiper belt, and that’s not even the edge of our solar system. We haven’t even really landed on the other planets, just a few moons, so who knows what we haven’t found yet.” The way Keith looks as he talks, eyes all lit up and a flush of color high on his cheeks -- it knocks Shiro breathless. “It’d suit you. Being out there, finding new things.”Shiro’s mouth falls open a little, and he ducks his head, self-conscious. “You think?” Hedoeswant that -- getting to fly out there in space, pushing the reaches of discovery, but hearing Keith tell him that it suits him, that’s, well.Keith gives him a tiny smile over his cup, corners of his eyes crinkled. “Yeah. It does.”Shiro is so gone on this boy, he really is.Or, 5+1 times Keith wears Shiro's clothing.





	everything, yourself, and home

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my Sheithlentines fic for [eight8xeight8](http://eight8xeight8.tumblr.com/) ^_^ They requested something domestic/fluffy, and admittedly it took me a while to come up with a prompt, but 5+1 things are always good. Happy (late) Valentines, Mikael, and I hope you like this!! (And I hope it cheers you up, even a little.) ❤︎
> 
> I wrote about 80% of this from 12mn to 5am, and it's un-beta'd, so any errors are my own.
> 
> Title taken from England by The National.
> 
> EDIT: hymnaria on Tumblr has as [art piece](http://hymnaria.tumblr.com/post/174005100448/collegeuni-au-where-shiro-likes-picking-up-keith) on her Tumblr inspired by this fic! ^__^ Which is the first time someone's done this for me in the Sheith fandom, I think, so (YELLS). Please check it out!! Her coloring is amazing ;u;

* * *

 

 

**1.**

The first time, they don’t even know each other.

 

Shiro’s still halfway through settling his things down onto one of the benches in the rec gym, bag off his shoulder but strap still in hand, jacket hanging from his other arm. He’s immensely distracted by the ongoing sparring match on the mats in the center of the room. One of the fighters is a friend of his, Matias Casillas, another junior but from the sociology department. It’s his opponent that’s got Shiro so fixated; he watches as the guy ducks under Matias' incoming hit and swings out a slender leg to knock Matias’ legs from underneath him--

He’s _good._ The dark-haired boy side-steps Matias’ attempt to take him down to the mat, and in a neat maneuver, is on top of his opponent with a knee digging into Matias’ chest.

“Fold,” he says, quiet and firm.

Matias struggles for all of a moment before realizing there’s no getting out from this. His hands drop by his head and he grins, catching his breath. “Fold.”

There’s a small outbreak of cheers and whistles. Shiro snaps out of his daze, dumps his stuff on the bench and steps forward.

“Either you’re getting old, Mati, or this kid’s a hell of a fighter,” he calls over, grinning. Matias laughs and flips him off.

“Take him on yourself, Shirogane, see how you manage.” Some of Matias’ friends jeer him. Shiro chuckles and turns to where the boy is dusting himself off, pointedly not looking at anyone.

“You fight pretty well,” Shiro says, smile softening to something genuine. He offers a hand, ready to introduce himself.

To his surprise, the boy just flicks his gaze over for a moment before shrugging looking off to the side. “Thanks,” he mutters. Then he’s stepping away, heading for where he’s presumably left his stuff.

Shiro watches him go with a frown, until a hand claps his shoulder and startles him. Matias is shaking his head, amused.

“Don’t mind it,” he says, tipping his head to where the boy has picked up his stuff and is leaving. “I’m pretty sure he actually only agreed to spar with me because I phrased it as a challenge.”

Shiro exhales a laugh. “Got one over you, though,” he says, elbowing his friend lightly.

“Get on the mat and I’ll show _you_ what it’s like,” Matias quips back.

 

Shiro wins the spar easily. Matias flops down onto the mat with his arms spread wide, and grumbles about Shiro being unfairly strong and couldn’t he have gone easy with that last move where he’d flipped Matias over and onto his back.

“Quit whining,” Shiro laughs, poking his friend with his foot.

“Fuck off, muscle boy,” Matias counters, without any real heat. Shiro grins down, unrepentant, and leaves to pack up.

At the bench, he changes his shirt, chugs his water. Checks his phone for messages. Gathers up his stuff.

The school-standard varsity jacket he picks up is two sizes too small, and definitely not his.

_Huh._

Shiro turns it over, looking for some form of identification -- an ID, maybe, or a library card or even a name tag. He finds nothing, just some loose change and a crumpled receipt for coffee. _Damn._

Ever responsible, he stops by the reception desk of the rec gym and tells the student volunteer that if anyone comes by looking for a jacket, he’s got it. He leaves his name, course, and number, then takes the jacket with him as he leaves.

And because he’s a well-mannered boy, he even includes it in his laundry later that night.

 

When Shiro leaves the locker room after swim training, he’s surprised to find the dark-haired boy from the gym standing outside, searching the people passing by. He waves his teammates off, heads over to the guy.

“Did you need something?” he asks politely.

The kid startles, then turns to look at him. His eyes go wide with recognition. They’re a peculiar color, Shiro realizes, and he gets a little stuck staring back.

“I, uh,” the guy says, and then he holds something out. Shiro forces himself to look down. It’s a jacket, which, why would he -- _oh._

“Sorry,” the boy adds a little sheepishly, shrugging. “Picked up the wrong one on the way out. Didn’t notice until I put it on.”

Shiro accepts the jacket with a smile. “It’s fine.” The smile morphs into a grimace when he remembers, “I don’t have yours, though -- it’s in my room, I didn’t bring it with me, sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair. “If you give me your name and course I can bring it to you?”

The kid shrugs. “I don’t mind coming to get it now.”

Oh. Well -- Shiro blinks down in surprise. “Uh. Sure.” He jerks his head in the direction of the student-athlete dormitories. “I’m over there.”

The guy doesn’t say anything, just falls into step beside Shiro, who watches the guy in his peripheral vision. He’s -- pretty, actually, longish black hair and high cheekbones. Slender, but Shiro remembers the strength with which he’d pinned Matias to the mat. He walks with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, pushing back the bright red jacket he has tied around his waist.

If he notices Shiro staring, he makes no comments.

Back at Shiro’s room, he leaves the guy standing in the hallway while he retrieves the jacket from where it’s draped over his desk chair. He hands it over with a friendly smile, and hopes the guy doesn’t mind that it smells of pine fresh detergent.

But maybe he does, because the guy frowns.

“Something wrong?” Shiro asks, apprehensive. Should he not have done that?

The guy’s expression scrunches up as he fiddles with the jacket. “I didn’t put yours in the laundry.”

Shiro looks at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter.

The guy is distinctly unimpressed.

“Sorry, sorry,” Shiro says when he’s finally caught his breath, because _really._ “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

The guy huffs and ducks his head, but his cheeks are pink.

“Yeah, well,” he says, red sneaker scuffing the ground. “Anyway, thanks for uh. Doing that. I should go.”

He gives Shiro a quick smile and makes to head off, but Shiro darts out of his door, calls after him.

“Wait!” The guy turns around, expression quizzical. Shiro tries to make himself look very not desperate. “Your, uh. Your name. What’s your name.”

The guy looks at Shiro for a long moment, then the corners of his mouth quirk up in a small, amused smile.

“It’s Keith,” he says. He shifts the jacket to hang over one arm and gives a tiny wave. “Thanks, uhm. Shirogane, right?”

Shiro snorts under his breath. “Just Shiro is fine.”

“Okay then.” Keith’s smile widens, just a bit. “Good night, Shiro.”

 

(Shiro does _not_ spend the rest of the night thinking about how ridiculously nice his name sounds in Keith’s voice.)

  


**2.**

With a name to the face and the story, Shiro finds out about Keith pretty quick. Turns out he’s making quite a name for himself -- Matt calls him _prodigy,_ says he’s the darling of the engineering department, although apparently his personality kind of sucks.

“Kids with mullets and attitude problems shouldn’t be able to remodel hoverbikes like that, Shiro, it’s unfair,” Matt whines over his French fries, face scrunched up in irritation (and a little pride). Shiro cocks an eyebrow, paused in the middle of eating his burger.

“It’s just.” Matt makes exasperated, flapping gestures with his hands. “He’s stupidly talented, you know? And he’s just a freshman, but he’s in the mechanical engineering program _and_ on the football team, and--”

“He is?” Shiro’s eyebrows go a little higher. He swallows another bite of burger. “Huh. That’s impressive.”

“It’s _infuriating,_ is what it is,” Matt grumbles, stabbing a fork into his baked potato.

“We’re proud of you too, Matt,” Shiro deadpans, trying to smother his grin.

Matt flicks a French fry right at his nose.

 

Shiro finds out quite a bit more information about Keith, but he doesn’t find _Keith_ until a few weeks after their first meeting. A combination of their vastly dissimilar schedules, their being on different teams, and Shiro not even knowing if Keith lives in the dorms means Shiro doesn’t see him again until a Friday afternoon. The swim team’s training runs late because of the upcoming local tournament, so it’s well past nighttime when Shiro starts walking back to the dorms.

He spots a vaguely familiar figure jogging a little ways ahead of him. A little squinting and he recognizes dark hair and a slim build.

“Keith!” he calls, picking up speed so he can catch up.

Keith doesn’t turn right away, and when Shiro draws level he sees Keith’s wearing earphones. He’s still halfway to deciding whether he should back off or tap Keith’s shoulder when Keith notices someone beside him and startles.

“Shiro,” he says, blinking away his surprise. He takes out an earbud, and that really shouldn’t make Shiro as happy as he does.

“Hey.” Shiro gives him a smile, runs a hand through his hair. He hopes it isn’t as bad a mess as it usually is after practice. “On your way home?”

“Back to the dorm, yeah.” Keith starts walking without prompting, and Shiro trots after him. Despite the slightly chilly night, Keith’s just in a short-sleeved shirt and drawstring pants cropped below the knee. He absently rubs a hand up and down his arm as they walk along, and Shiro makes a decision.

“Here,” he says, coming to a stop. Keith turns back, confused, watching as Shiro drops his bag and shrugs off his training jacket. His face takes on that scrunched-up expression again when Shiro holds his jacket out.

“Come on,” Shiro says, with a wry smile. “You won’t do yourself any favors being cold.”

Keith eyes both him and the jacket warily, but Shiro could stand here all night. Thankfully he doesn’t have to; Keith takes the jacket, a tiny blush going across his cheeks and nose.

Shiro considers himself strong of heart, but the sight of an embarrassed Keith wearing a jacket two sizes too big is enough to weaken even the most stubborn of defenses.

He covers it up by looking a little to the left and saying “you can return it after you’ve washed it.”

Keith socks him in the arm. Shiro laughs.

 

They part ways in the dorm lobby; Keith’s room is by the end of the hall on the first floor, and Shiro lives on the third. That’s another thing for Shiro to file away in the drawer marked _Things About Keith._

“I’ll bring it over tomorrow,” Keith says, lifting an arm.

“No worries,” Shiro says.

Keith gives him another small wave before walking off.

 

One more thing Shiro’s learned about Keith tonight: his eyes are a dark blue that’s almost violet.

He’d say they’re like a galaxy, but Shiro’s still trying to pretend he’s not gone all cheesy just yet.

  


**3.**

The sudden downpour catches Shiro just as he’s on his way to his favorite coffee shop, because of course it rains when he decides to walk. He books it across the road, jacket pulled up over his head to shield himself as best as he can from the rain. (His bag, thankfully, is waterproof; he’s learned after a few too many incidents poolside.) He ducks under the awning of the coffee shop, wiping the rain from his face and slicking back his hair, and hoping his phone hasn’t died in his jeans pocket.

Someone runs up after him, and Shiro moves out of the way just in time to avoid being knocked over by--

“--Keith!” Shiro feels his cheeks go very warm when he turns around, because Keith is standing there, completely drenched. He’s in a thin, pale grey shirt that’s stuck to his body because of the rain, with his hair a wet mess.

Shiro keeps his eyes above shoulder level.

“Fucking _rain,”_ Keith seethes, shaking his arms out and exhaling sharply. He runs his hands through his hair, wringing out the worst of the wetness and pushing it out of his eyes.

Shiro is _not_ staring.

“Wasn’t in the forecast,” he says instead, conversationally. He tries to squeeze out his shirt, and mostly just makes it very wrinkled.

“Ugh,” Keith says, with plenty of feeling. Shiro huffs a laugh. Keith glares up at him, and that just makes Shiro laugh harder, because he just looks like a disgruntled cat. The glare deepens to a scowl.

“I have an extra shirt, if you want,” Shiro relents.

Keith’s expression softens into hesitation. “Won’t you need one?” he points out, gesturing at Shiro.

“I have one more extra shirt,” Shiro amends. It earns him a pair of raised eyebrows. “Swim team,” he clarifies, and Keith nods in understanding.

“That’d be, uh. Helpful.” Keith plucks at his wet shirt morosely. Shiro grins.

“Come on,” he says, turning to open the shop door. “We should get inside.”

 

Fifteen minutes later and they’re seated at one of the tables with hot drinks and snacks. Keith is in his borrowed clothing, a deep red muscle shirt that for Shiro fits like a glove. For Keith, it hangs loose on his torso, exposing lithe arms and tan lines.

Between that and the fact that they’re together in a coffee shop, Shiro’s a little flustered.

“Thanks for the shirt,” Keith says, plucking at it absently.

“No problem,” Shiro replies, because really, he should be saying thank you, if just for the view.

“I’ll put it in the laundry before I give it back,” Keith adds wryly, making Shiro snort into his coffee.

 _You can keep it,_ he almost admits. “Drink your coffee,” he says instead. “You should get yourself warm.”

“Yes, mother,” Keith snipes, making a face. But he wraps his hands around the steaming mug, taking a long sip. Caramel macchiato, which Shiro hadn’t expected.

Plenty of things about Keith seem to surprise him.

They end up staying a few hours, falling into easy conversation about school and their respective sports. Shiro coaxes Keith into talking about his classes (and they both agree that Iverson is the absolute worst). They’re in different departments -- Keith’s in mechanical engineering, the same as Matt, while Shiro is halfway through a civil engineering undergrad -- but Keith surprises Shiro by admitting he has the same ambitions. The Garrison’s post-grad Galaxy Flight Programs attract all sorts of people, and finding this out is, for Shiro, a pleasant surprise.

“What track?” he asks, folding his arms over the table. They’re both well into their second drinks by now, and their snacks are long gone.

“Fighter pilot,” Keith admits easily, and yeah, Shiro can see that. It’s easy to picture Keith -- firebright and fervent as he is -- up in the sky, chasing the horizon. “You?” he asks, pinning Shiro with a curious look.

“Space pilot,” Shiro says, with a small smile.

“Yeah?” There’s a wry twist to Keith’s mouth, which he hides with another sip of his coffee. “I can see that.”

Huh. “Really?” Shiro tips his head to the side, brow slightly furrowed. He hadn’t expected that. For most of the people who know him, they expect him to follow his father into the army or go for professional athletics. It’s the kind of thing that legacy kids do.

Not that Shiro’s ever wanted things like that.

“Yeah.” Keith idles a finger around the rim of his mug. “Space is -- there’s just so _much_ of it out there, and it’s massive and just going on, right? There’s so much we don’t know, I mean, we’re just starting to reach the Kuiper belt, and that’s not even the edge of our solar system. We haven’t even really landed on the other planets, just a few moons, so who knows what we haven’t found yet.” The way he looks as he talks, eyes all lit up and a flush of color high on his cheeks -- it knocks Shiro breathless. “It’d suit you. Being out there, finding new things.”

Shiro’s mouth falls open a little, and he ducks his head, self-conscious. “You think?” He _does_ want that -- getting to fly out there in space, pushing the reaches of discovery, but hearing Keith tell him that it suits him, that’s, well.

Keith gives him a tiny smile over his cup, corners of his eyes crinkled. “Yeah. It does.”

 

Shiro is so gone on this boy, he really is.

  


**4.**

The next morning, Shiro’s looking for a notebook with some relatively respectable cover in the campus bookstore when he hears the worst sneeze. Alarmed, he pops his head round the shelf to find Keith standing by the student-use photocopier, hunched up and looking like death warmed over.

“You look like crap,” Shiro says, in lieu of an actual, proper greeting.

Keith’s withering stare would hold more weight of he wasn’t red-faced and shivering in his dark purple henley.

“Thanks, I hadn’t realized,” he drawls, although the mocking tone is ruined by his stuffy nose. Shiro moves a little closer, feeling genuinely concerned, because Keith really _does_ look like crap.

“Are you sick?” he asks. They’d been caught in the rain, after all, and Shiro really should have made sure Keith had been warmer, or gotten him back to the dorms sooner, or--

“It’s just a cold, Shiro, stop worrying your head off.” Keith sniffs, sticky and miserable, but there’s a dry warmth to his voice. “It’ll go away in a few days.”

Shiro’s cheeks go warm from being caught out, but he persists. “You should still be in bed,” he points out, crossing his arms. “It’s not going to go away if you don’t rest.”

“Iverson’s exam is on Friday.” Keith makes a face and gestures to where he’s making copies. “I need the readings.”

“You should’ve told me.” Shiro frowns. “I could have gotten them for you.”

Keith possibly laughs, but it’s wheezy and turns into a cough halfway through. “It’s _fine,_ Shiro,” he says, hoarse but somehow still amused. “I’m not going to die from picking up some photocopies of a required text.”

Shiro bites back the number of retorts on his tongue because he doesn’t want to start sounding like his own mother. Instead, he heaves a sigh and hauls his duffel bag round, digging through it. He tugs out his Star Wars hoodie and hands it over, shaking his head. “At least wear something warmer,” he says, because Keith’s shirt might have long sleeves but it’s on the thin side, too.

This time, Keith takes the hoodie willingly, pulling it on without protest. His hair is a mess when he pops out of the neck hole, and he’s drowning in it -- it’s a little oversized on _Shiro_ as it is -- but he bundles himself up in it and hums, closing his eyes. “Thanks,” he says, a little muffled by the fabric he’s pulled over his face.

“If you need anything else, let me know,” Shiro adds, zipping his bag back up.

Keith snorts, then sneezes. “I’ll be _fine,_ ” he says again, and while half his face is hidden by the collar of the hoodie, his expression is still warm. “It’s a cold, not pneumonia.”

“Still.” Shiro adjusts the strap of his bag and contemplates offering to wait with Keith and walk him back to the dorm, but that might be overdoing things. He can only get away with so much hovering. “I have to go, but I’ll -- talk to you later?”

“Yeah.” Keith smiles, then turns back to the photocopier as it finishes clunking out his papers.

“Good luck,” Shiro says, then shuffles away.

 

Unfortunately for Shiro, his gesture of goodwill means that he has to suffer the freezing conditions of Professor Coran’s lecture room for two hours with just a cup of bad coffee and Matt’s bright green scarf.

“We have this class twice a week,” Matt says, passing Shiro the scarf after watching his friend shiver for fifteen minutes. “You always bring a jacket.”

“I, uh.” Shiro makes himself very interested in the whiteboard, tapping his pen against his notepad. “Forgot.”

“You forgot.” Matt’s unimpressed look could bore through steel. Shiro yields almost immediately.

“I lent it to Keith,” he admits, studiously avoiding his friend’s gaze.

Matt blinks at him judgmentally for a few moments, then shakes his head.

“You’re an idiot,” he pronounces, and resumes taking notes.

Shiro can’t disagree.

 

Keith shows up at his room five days later, looking much better and less like the plague. He passes Shiro both the hoodie and a… ticket?

“For my -- our next game,” Keith explains, and he’s -- blushing, red high on his cheeks, and he’s looking at a spot over Shiro’s shoulder. One foot kicks at the floor. “I wanted to, uh. Make it up to you -- having to borrow your stuff so much. It’s a thank you. If you want.”

Shiro looks from Keith to the ticket, a little bewildered. There’s something warm in his chest. “Yeah,” he says, a little hoarsely. He clears his throat. “Yeah, I’d, ah. I’d like that.”

Keith looks at him then, eyes wide, and then his mouth unfurls into a grin. “Really? We can get something after -- I mean, if you don’t mind waiting, but we can go get something to eat or get coffee.” He bites his lip, endearingly hopeful.

As if Shiro would say no.

“I’d like that,” he says again, exhaling a smile. “Thank you, Keith.”

Keith shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “Yeah, well.” He lifts a hand, scrubs absently at his cheek. “I just hope we win.”

Shiro cocks an eyebrow, smirking. “You gonna score one for me?”

That makes Keith laugh, and if Shiro could tuck that sound between the pages of a book, he would. “We’ll see.” He pushes off where he’s been leaning against Shiro’s desk, turns to leave. “See you Saturday?”

 _Stay a while longer,_ whispers Shiro’s traitorous heart.

“Yeah,” he says instead. “See you.”

  


**5.**

Keith doesn’t score a goal, but he does get two assists to lead the Garrison Lions to victory. Shiro watches from the sidelines, cheering along with everyone else with every exciting play, every chance at goal. Keith is thrilling to watch on the field, quicksilver and intense and dangerous.

Out there, sun-kissed and breathless, he’s beautiful.

Shiro hangs back after the game, loitering by the bleachers as Keith regroups with his team. He waves to Shiro, gesturing for him to wait, then darts off to follow his teammates to the locker room. 20 minutes later, he emerges, looking freshly-showered and much neater. The skin on his cheeks and across his nose is stung a little pink by the sun.

“Hey!” he calls, jogging up to Shiro. “Sorry for making you wait. Coach had a few things to discuss.”

“It’s fine.” Shiro looks him over appreciatively -- dark grey shirt, distressed black jeans, those red high-tops. But because it’s a little chilly, and Keith is awful at remembering to bring warmer clothing, Shiro unties his scarf from around his neck and winds it around Keith’s. The other boy rolls his eyes, but when Shiro pulls away, Keith still adjusts the fabric around his neck so he’s comfortable.

Shiro shakes his head fondly. “Wanna go?”

“Please.” Keith tugs lightly at Shiro’s arm as he sets off, though he lets go almost immediately. “I’m starving.”

“Good game,” Shiro says with a smile, trotting after him.

“Yeah, it was.” Keith grins wide, looking particularly satisfied. “Didn’t score though.”

That makes Shiro laugh. “There’s always next time.”

Keith slows down a little, gives him a wry, sideways look. “Yeah? You gonna watch me again?”

God, but Keith always makes it so easy to flirt, glancing at Shiro with playful expression. It makes Shiro a little bolder, makes him chance an arm around Keith’s waist. And Keith leans into him, fits so neatly against his shoulder, sun-warmed and pliant.

“I might,” Shiro quips, trying to hold in a smirk.

“Hmm.” Keith reaches around and hooks two fingers in Shiro’s back pocket. “I might be able to score if you come.”

He delivers the line blithely, with perfect composure. Shiro cracks up, a big, snorting laugh that nearly makes him double over.

“You,” he gasps, wheezing, “are _horrible.”_

Keith shrugs, unrepentant. “You like me anyway.”

And Shiro -- looks at Keith, at the tiny, smug grin that tugs at the corners of his lips, at his amused expression. At eyes that remind Shiro of the irresistible pull of the cosmos. Keith is bright and uncontainable, has a laugh like a summer rainstorm.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, lightly, like his heart doesn’t feel like a drum beat in his chest. “Yeah I do.”

And he reaches out, tugs Keith in by the ends of the scarf to kiss him.

  


**+1**

Shiro’s alarm jolts him awake at half past six on a Monday morning. He reaches out, fumbling for his phone, and almost drops it as he tries to shut it off one-handed. The early morning sunlight streams through the cheap blinds of the tiny bedroom along with the sounds of the city outside. Shiro blinks awake, yawns, one arm stretching overhead.

The warm body curled up against him shifts and makes a tiny disgruntled noise. The hand on his chest closes into a fist and tries, sleepily, to tug him back down.

“Too early,” Keith groans, pressing his face into Shiro’s shoulder.

Shiro pinches his lips shut to stop from laughing. “I have to report to the lab today.”

“Mmrrpphhgg.” Keith leans into him a little more heavily, but relents. He rolls away enough to let Shiro up, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s wearing one of Shiro’s old shirts, the print already faded and the fabric worn soft; it’s ridden up a bit in his sleep. Shiro reaches out, slides a hand over slim hips and presses a quick kiss to Keith’s mouth.

“Don’t oversleep this time,” he chides, sitting up, though not before he catches Keith making a face.

“Yes, mother,” Keith grumbles, already burrowing back under the sheets.

Shiro lets himself linger a moment longer, watching Keith tuck himself back into bed. There are bits and pieces of him littered about the tiny apartment -- a stack of his clothes in the dresser, a second toothbrush in the bathroom, a mug in the kitchen cabinet. A spare pair of cleats by the door. And all the photographs, of Keith and of the two of them, tacked to the wall over Shiro’s bedside table.

Shiro watches Keith and thinks about how this boy has quietly, carefully made a space for himself in Shiro’s life.

Thinks about Keith, and home.

“Hey, Keith.” Shiro reaches out, brushes a stray lock of hair from the other boy’s forehead. “Keith.”

He gets an irritated grumble. Shiro laughs and leans in, presses another kiss to Keith’s forehead.

“I love you.”

When he draws back, Keith’s got one eye cracked open. His expression is immeasurably fond. There’s a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, a light dusting of pink on his cheeks.

“Idiot,” he says, quiet and warm. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Y'all can come find me on Twitter at [@okw_tr](https://twitter.com/okw_tr) and on Tumblr as [okwtr](https://okwtr.tumblr.com) for more VLD content (and other fandoms as well). Come say hi!! ^_^ ❤︎ You can check there for ways to support my art/writing, too.


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